by Sara Rosett
I took a circuitous route back to the table where Monica waited. “He’s got sand on the soles of his flip-flops and there’s a dusting of it on his heels and calves, too.”
“So, he probably just got back from the beach,” Monica said. “I doubt he’d take the memory card with him there. He wouldn’t want to risk it getting wet or losing it.”
I nodded. “And, he doesn’t have anything on the bar in front of him except a keycard, his phone, and the champagne flute.”
“Impressive,” Monica said. “You might have a future in journalism.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, pressing my hand to my stomach and taking a few deep breaths. “I feel jittery and a bit like I might throw up.”
Monica laughed. “Reporter’s high. I live for that. Okay, I’ll hit his room, see if I can get a maid or someone to let me in. If he doesn’t have the memory card with him, it’s got to be in his room.”
A terrible thought struck me. “What if he’s e-mailed the pictures?”
Monica instantly replied, “Don’t say that. I’m sure he’s hanging on to it. He’d have to. We have to verify all our photos, show that they’re original and haven’t been tampered with or doctored. That’s probably why they’re not up on Exposé’s website right now. They want to verify them, see the actual memory card. No one wants to get sued, and this is going to be a doozy of a story. They’re probably being careful.”
Monica twisted the loop of hair a bit tighter around her finger as she said, “Besides, even if he’s e-mailed the pictures, as long as you get the memory card back, you can swap it for your brother. I’m the only one who’s screwed if he’s e-mailed the photos.”
Pete motioned at the bartender for a refill on his champagne as Monica continued. “The fact that they’re still unpublished argues that he’s keeping them under wraps. He’s probably booked on the first flight out of here tomorrow. Maybe they want him to hand-carry them back to Exposé’s L.A. offices or . . . he’s waiting for a courier.”
“Wouldn’t he FedEx them?”
“Not those photos. An editor wouldn’t take a chance of an envelope being misplaced or delayed. No, those photos will have a personal escort to the newsroom.” She released the strand of hair and shook out her hands, reminding me of an athlete preparing to run a race. “Okay, I’ll check his room. You stay here, keep an eye on Pete, and call me if he leaves.”
I stood up. “No, I’ll check his room.”
“You?”
I gave her a long look. “I think you’re on the level with me, but if you were me, would you trust someone like yourself to search that room alone? How do I know that if you find the memory card you won’t leave me sitting here in the bar?”
“I would never do that.”
“You’re overdoing the injured tone,” I said.
Her lips twisted to the side. “Okay, so I’m never going to win any awards for being the most dependable person around, but how do I know I can trust you?”
“Because every time I break a promise it absolutely kills me. I don’t like any of this deception and you thrive on it—am I right?” She raised one shoulder half an inch, which I took to be agreement. “So, I’ve promised you’ll get the photos. I just want to copy to make sure Ben is safe.”
“Okay, fine,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “You can go. How will you get in?”
“I’ll find a way,” I said, and left before she could ask any more questions.
I paused in the lobby, considering if I might be able to con a maid into opening the door to Room 505 for me, but I thought the likelihood of finding one at this hour of the night was probably low to nonexistent. If it had been eight in the morning with lots of people checking out, that ploy might have worked, but at eight-thirty at night it wasn’t a good idea.
I turned away from the elevators toward the front desk. “I’d like a room,” I told the fiftyish clerk. “Fifth floor, please.”
He looked at me over the rims of his half-glasses and asked in a snide tone, “Any particular room?”
“Yes. I’d like five-o-three or five-o-seven,” I said, praying that one of the rooms was unoccupied.
“I see,” he said, his tone conveying that he thought I was a loon. But I was past caring what a stuck-up desk clerk thought about me. I had to get into the room and find out if Pete had the memory card. Even if I couldn’t find the memory card, if he had my laptop, that would let me know he had been the person in my room.
“You’re in luck, ma’am. Room five-o-three is available,” he said, and I handed over my credit card.
“Wonderful.” The clerk raised a finger, and a bellboy trundled my way, pulling a baggage cart. “Oh, no luggage,” I said, which drew a sharp glance from the clerk.
“At the moment,” I quickly amended. “My husband dropped me off. He’ll be along shortly.” I scribbled my name on the paperwork, trying not to look at the total at the bottom. One night at the Park Palms Hotel wouldn’t break the budget, but there were other things I could have spent that money on. Like a new designer bag. All leather, too. I handed the paper back to the desk clerk as the bellhop reversed course.
“Is there any reason you requested Room five-o-three in particular?” the clerk asked as he pushed the little folded envelope with the keycards across the counter. “We like to meet all our guests expectations . . . so if there is something specific . . .”
“Oh . . . I—ah, I just love the view.”
He frowned. “But it faces the street, away from the beach.” He leaned toward the computer keyboard. “I’m sure we have a room available on the other side of the hotel—”
“No! I mean, no thanks. It’s fine. I can’t look at all that water,” I said, improvising. “It makes me a little seasick. Besides, I love the traffic and movement on the beach road. Sandy Beach is such a quaint little town. Who wouldn’t like to look at it?” Stop babbling, I commanded myself and pocketed the keycards. I could feel him watching me as I walked to the elevators. He was probably making a note for security to keep an eye on the weird woman who doesn’t like the water, but checked into a beach hotel without luggage.
I emerged into the hush of deep carpet on the fifth floor. It was deserted. I hurried to 503, let myself in, put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign, and went straight to the sliding glass doors. Like the rooms that faced the beach, these rooms also had a balcony. I examined the lock. It was a simple lever, and there was no bar or brace in the frame to hold the door closed in case the lock in the handle broke. I guess the hotel figured at five floors up, there wasn’t much need for extra security. I dumped the contents of my purse onto the bed and sorted through my options. A ballpoint pen and several credit cards were the only things that seemed like they would work. Why didn’t I carry a nail file—a good metal one, at that?
I replaced everything in my purse, slipped it across my body and, after poking my head out the window to check distances, went back into the room and stripped a sheet off one of the double beds. I looped it over my shoulder and headed for the balcony.
Chapter Sixteen
I had one leg draped over the edge of my balcony, and I was straining to reach Pete’s balcony when my phone rang. The noise, even though muted inside my purse, seemed unusually loud. I glanced down at the entrance to the hotel below me where the glow of car headlights cut through the night and voices of people walking to the hotel from the parking garage floated up. I pulled my leg back, hooked my foot into the curly wrought iron surrounding the balcony, and perched there on the balustrade as I dug my phone out. The last thing I needed was for someone to glance up and see my bad impression of John Robie, the “Cat.” I checked over the railing and didn’t see anyone with their heads craned back. The people continued to stroll while the palm fronds clattered in the soft breeze.
My phone glowed with Mitch’s picture. I closed my eyes for a moment, debating whether or not to answer. If you’re about to break into a hotel room, should you tell your spouse? Probably not, I decided. Especially if y
ou’re already halfway over the railing. I bit my lip, and, in that moment of hesitation, my decision was made for me. The picture disappeared, and the call went to voice mail. I did some mental math and realized Mitch must be close to arriving. I’d been so swept up in searching for Pete that I’d forgotten Mitch’s arrival time. Well, I’d just have to finish here and get back to the hotel.
A quick check of my voice mail confirmed that Mitch was about an hour out and would call when he arrived. I also had a second voice mail. I must have missed the call when we were in the noisy bar. It was from Detective Jenson. He got right to the point. “Still waiting on that call from your brother, Mrs. Avery.”
“Okay, okay,” I muttered. “I’m working on it.” I put the phone on vibrate and loosened by foot from the wrought iron. The balconies were spaced about four and a half feet apart, slightly beyond the length of a “giant step,” which I figured was intentional. It was designed to discourage exactly what I was doing. The gap was wide enough to give a sense of privacy to each balcony and also caused me to break out in a cold sweat at the thought of crossing the space. I’d tied the bed sheet tightly to the balustrade on my balcony. I wiped my forehead, tried to ignore the fact that I was actually above the coconut palms, and gripped the sheet tight. I leaned, using it to extend my reach a few more inches.
My fingertips brushed the wrought iron balustrade on the other balcony. I breathed deeply and lengthened my stretch, thinking of the stroller brigade workout—just like a cool-down stretch for the oblique muscles. My fingers connected with the iron again, and this time I was able to get my fingers all the way around the balustrade. I didn’t stop to think. I shifted my weight and was across, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. “Okay. Good,” I muttered, and swung my shaky legs over the railing. I’d kept hold of the sheet as I came across and looped it around the balustrade, in case I had to go back this way. I actually intended to go out the door, if at all possible.
My phone buzzed against my hip. It was Monica. “Is he leaving?” I asked.
“No, he’s still here. Are you in yet?”
“I would be if people would stop calling me.”
“Testy. Testy. Maybe I should have done it, after all.”
“No, I’m almost there,” I said as I cradled the phone on my shoulder and wiped my palms on my jeans. “I’ll call you back if I find anything.”
I’d experimented a few times on the latch on Room 503’s sliding glass door before I’d set out and, surprisingly, found that my Kroger club card fit best into the sliver of space between the frame and the sliding glass door. I hoped it worked as well from the outside as it did from the inside. I worked the card into the tiny space and moved it up firmly. It stuck. I bit my lip and tried again. There was a metallic click, and I couldn’t help smiling. The glass door moved smoothly down the track when I pushed on the handle. My Kroger card was a bit mangled, but I figured paying full price for milk was the least of my worries right now.
As soon as I was in the room, I moved to the door to put on the interior deadbolt, then I closed the curtains and hit the lights.
“Oh, no,” I whispered, looking around.
I’d broken into the wrong room. No one was staying here. I turned in a circle, taking in the immaculate room. Not a single wrinkle marred the smooth lines of the comforters on the double beds. Nothing on the desk or the nightstands. Even the remote was tidily lined up in front of the television. I checked the tab on the phone, and it listed this as Room 505. It was the right room. Had Pete already checked out? Or was he just extremely—maybe compulsively—neat? I hurried into the bathroom and let out a relieved breath. There was a toothbrush, a wrinkled tube of Crest, and a shaving kit.
Okay, he hadn’t checked out. I quickly looked through the shaving kit and only found typical toiletries, like shaving cream, razors, and deodorant. There was nothing else in the bathroom besides the hotel’s thick bathrobe on the back of the door. I hurried back into the room, moved to the closet. A small hard-sided rolling suitcase and a duffle bag were tucked into the closet along with his video camera.
Pete Gutin was packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice. I hauled the suitcase out and opened it on the floor. I worked as carefully as I could, looking through it, trying to keep everything exactly as it was. Lots of clothes—lightweight collared shirts, several pairs of pants and shorts, underwear, sandals, sneakers and socks, a waterproof jacket, and more swim trunks—exactly how the experts tell you to pack for travel. Everything was wash-and-wear, made of fabrics that would dry quickly without wrinkling, and all were either white, tan, or black. I found a few receipts in the small pockets of the suitcase along with two cherry LifeSavers and a stubby pencil.
I zipped the suitcase closed and switched it for the duffle. The duffle held snorkeling gear, a really nice digital camera, a bag of trail mix, a whole package of LifeSavers, two paperback thrillers, a laptop computer, and a spiral notebook with wrinkled edges and coffee-ring stains on the front. I quickly checked the smaller exterior pockets but didn’t find the memory card. It wasn’t plugged into any of the slots on the laptop or the digital camera, either.
I sat back on my heels and rubbed my forehead. Had I been completely wrong? Was Pete the wrong person? I left the duffle bag and went back to the closet to double-check. Maybe there was something else . . . some other bag I’d missed, I thought. I was getting desperate and the closet was tiny. There wasn’t another bag in there, but I looked anyway, patting the top shelf. Nothing.
Then I picked up the video camera and saw my laptop. I recognized the diagonal scratch that Nathan had put in it when he’d run his front loader over the top. Thank goodness, I thought. I carefully put the video camera down and picked up my laptop. Nothing in the ports, but at least I knew Pete had been in my hotel room. I was on the right track.
I put the laptop down on the carpet with the other things I’d removed from the closet. I was afraid to put anything on the smooth comforters and leave an impression that would show I had been here. With my hands on my hips, I turned in a half circle, looking at each item, then scanning the room. The memory card was tiny . . . it could be anywhere. I was searching for something roughly the size of a paper clip.
Be methodical, I told myself. Don’t get overwhelmed. I needed to approach this like an organizing job. Okay, then. I’d finish the personal stuff first, then search the room. I replaced everything in the duffle except Pete’s laptop and the notebook, then I looked over the video camera, but I didn’t see anywhere he’d be able to hide a memory card. I moved quickly through the room, checking drawers and trash cans, then under the bed, but didn’t find anything.
It isn’t here. I dropped down on the carpet. I was exhausted and scared. What was I going to do? Call Jenson and tell him everything? Would he believe me? Would he be able to help me now? Could I get Mr. Sandpaper Voice to give me more time? But that wouldn’t help me if I couldn’t find the photos.
I didn’t have time to panic right now. I wiped my hands down over my face and took a deep breath. I had to put everything back and get out of here. Then I could have a meltdown in my very own expensive room next door.
I picked up the spiral notebook and flipped through the pages as I moved to replace it in the duffle. Most of the notes looked like travel information, hotel names and flight numbers. I opened a set of papers folded in half and shoved in the middle of the notebook.
The paper was a printed boarding pass. I blinked. Pete Gutin was going to the Cayman Islands tomorrow morning. My mouth felt dry as I flipped to the next page. It was a two-page document, a legal contract. I skimmed the text, whispering, “No, no, no.”
Pete had sold the photos to the British tabloid, The Daily Bulletin, in a seven-figure deal.
My phone buzzed. I jumped, dropping the notebook and the papers. I pulled my phone out and saw it was Monica.
“He’s left,” she said.
“What?” I bent down and picked up the papers automatically. I felt dazed. The memory card w
as gone. The photos had been sold.
There was nothing I could do. Absolutely nothing. I could send Ben a message, but I had no idea if he’d get it. He didn’t understand how much trouble he was in. What would Mr. Sandpaper Voice do when I had to finally admit that I didn’t have the photos? And then, if that wasn’t enough, there was Detective Jenson waiting in the wings, who thought Ben had something to do with Angela’s death, which he now believed was murder.
“Pete. He left the bar. He’s heading for the elevators. Did you get in his room?”
It felt like a splash of cold water had hit me. “Yes, and it’s not good. There’s no memory card here, and he’s sold the photos.”
“What? To who?”
“The Daily Bulletin,” I said, spreading the papers on the floor.
“He went to the British tabloids with them? Oh my God. They’d pay a fortune.”
“They did,” I said, grimly.
“What do you mean?”
“Two million dollars. There’s a signed contract, and since I can’t find the memory card, Pete must have already sent them to The Daily Bulletin. Will they put them online right away?”
“Probably as soon as they can,” she said, her voice miserable. “Once they’ve examined them, and they’re sure the photos aren’t doctored, they’ll run them. Probably either tomorrow or the next day.” Her voice changed. “Oh, his elevator is here. He’s definitely going up to his room.”
“I’ve got to go.”
I quickly snapped photos of all the pages with the camera in my phone, then stuffed the pages back in the notebook, and replaced it with the laptop in the duffle. My phone vibrated with another call from Monica. I ignored it, shoving it in my pocket.
